Mad Hatter's Hobby
by Ms. ST
Summary: One has often wondered what The Mad Hatter does in his free time other than goofing off and drinking his precious tea. The ghost of his victims advise you, though. This is not for the faint of heart. Oneshot. Rated M for gore and violence.


A cell, located somewhere underneath the ground near a supposedly safe and blissful cottage, a murderer resided, holding a cleaver between two hands and twirling it lighting with his thumb. It did not occur to him that the point of the knife was twisting deeper and deeper into the palm of his hand, drawing blood and puncturing the skin farther and farther. As the knife grinded against the bone, the assassin jumped and withdrew the cleaver from his palm. Cursing under his breath, the killer stood from his woodened desk, stained with age, blood, and water, and stepped towards his victim he lured in this afternoon.

_Marchy went a little overboard with the tea, I think_, he thought as he propped his elbow onto the torture table and settled his chin in the palm of his good hand. He watched the victim, fast asleep and oblivious to her surroundings, with an expression that read he was bored and impatient. And he was! He would have to give March Hare a punishment for making the tea too strong. A few pinches of poppy flower, and that was it! It wasn't very hard to do.

The victim began to stir, a few twitches on her face, perhaps confused for she could not move her arms, legs, and neck. A jolt entered through his stomach and jerked his heart. Excitement. A small but sly grin crept onto his face, eyes radiant with thrill and animation. That one moment he was waiting for, that moment when the prey and the predator first meet eye-to-eye, came with such exhilaration and such triumph for the killer, it made him laugh out loud. The laugh bounced off the stone walls of the chamber, vibrating back towards the couple and silencing the boisterous and helpless shrieks of the victim.

"Th-the Mad Hatter!" she screeched, trying to restrain the chains that bounded her to the filthy table.

The Mad Hatter chuckled and smiled - a kind of smile one would give a good friend as they approached them on a sidewalk. He rotated the knife in his good hand and patted the victim's shoulder with the other. She flinched, which The Mad Hatter expected, but paid no mind and replied, "Oh, The Mad Hatter sounds so formal. Hatter will do just fine, love." He pirouetted around the table acting as if his knife was a conductor stick. His feet moved with such grace and poise that one would mistake him for floating. An angel of death. His finale ended with a low, quick bow, casually waving his cleaver behind him.

"No applause?" he asked himself, pouting with his shoulders slightly hunched over. "Did you not like it, Heather? I poured my heart and soul in that little entertainment!"

Hatter suddenly became furious with the victim. He bolted to and pounced onto the table, hovering over the girl with a look to kill. His cleaver was clenched tightly in his hand, knuckles bleached white. The victim's eyes were filled with terror, and Hatter could see that she was waiting for that knife to pierce her body. Now Hatter was a little disappointed because he wanted the kill to be unexpected and sudden. He did not want the victim to know when he was going to do it.

He dropped the knife, startling the girl, and took hold of her hands, tight, squeezing them until they turned purple.

"Clap for me, Heather!" he yelled. "Clap for me!" Hatter tried to pull the girl's hands together, only having the strip of metal bind them down, so he tried harder and harder until he was literally pushing her wrist down to her arm, breaking the bone completely.

The girl's painful cries were drowned out by the lively, rowdy laughter of Hatter. He twisted the skin around on one wrist, making a coil of flesh. Heather's eyes popped, a raspy scream escaping her mouth. Knowing that the skin and muscle were far too tough to rip, Hatter bent down and grabbed the cleaver, carving into the wrist of Heather until her hand was free from her body. She screamed. He grinned.

He did the same on the other hand and dropped the knife once more. He would now get his applause. Taking the newly amputated hands, he clapped them together while skipping around, laughing manically and smiling wide as if he was the Cheshire cat himself. Heather, horror-struck, slipped her bloody wrist from the metal bands and held them up in front of her face. Blood and tears mixed upon her face, making a crimson paste that fell into her perfect, fluffy blonde hair.

Throwing Heather's hands at her face, making her flinch and squeak, Hatter stepped towards his prey again, walking into the pool of blood that collected beneath the torture table. Hatter, being a proper gentleman, kept his shoes in a corner of the chamber so that he would not stain them with "unworthy blood". His feet were bare against the mossy stone ground. His green, velvet waistcoat hung on the back of a chair near his brown, newly shined shoes. A gold vest sat on top, and on the seat of the chair long, black, pinstriped pants were neatly folded. Hatter wore an off-white, poor excuse of a shirt with brown stains splattered on the front and sleeves. It smell horrid, as if an animal was shot, died, and was buried in the very rags he wore upon his chiseled body.

The Mad Hatter looked down at the blonde, having lost his train of thought. He soon gained back reality right before he was hit in the face by a bloody arm. He caught Heather's wrist before she could swing again, coxed a brow, and smiled. His eyebrows rose higher, and his grin was slowly dying away. Then, after nodding, he stuck Heather's freshly cut wrist into his mouth and began to suck on her jagged bone. The girl struggled to obtain her wrist back, but it was no use for the Hatter was much stronger than she was. Hatter than started to gnaw on the bone, chuckling as his victim began to holler again.

"Why a-are you do… Doing this?!" Ah, so this little blonde wasn't such a drag after all. Hatter was beginning to think that this girl was not worth his time. But as he started to ponder on this question, a question he was never asked during a torturing due to the fact that his victim would endure torture after torture, he could not collect a reasonable explanation for his behavior. He laid Heather's arm over her stomach as he spit out the taste of iron in his mouth. The question she asked was eating at him.

With one swift movement The Mad Hatter swept up the cleaver and jammed it into Heather's heart. He watched the girl grasp for air as if she was a fish out of water. Out of instinct, Heather tried to grab at her neck, and oddly enough, this did not amuse The Mad Hatter. He only rested his elbows on the table and stared at the helpless girl. The last breath was coming soon. Her attempts at filling her lungs were growing weaker and weaker. Then the moment came. Heather's last effort came and went like a blink of an eye. The Mad Hatter blinked and missed his victim's passing.

Why _was_ he doing this? He was about to answer the question when the cellar door creaked open, and out came a peculiar character. From what the Hatter could tell, it had large rabbit ears. He eased a bit, knowing exactly who was coming in. March Hare walked in with her hands on her hips and looked around. She shook her head in disappointment.

"You could have told me you were finished," said she. Her voice was so frail and timid. One would be surprised that she was as kooky and wild as The Mad Hatter. She was his lover, after all. "The smell of a dead body is quick to be released, you know."

"I know," Hatter replied, skipping over to his apprentice with a grin on his face. He planted a bloody kiss upon March's olive skin (her forehead) and grabbed her chin for a quick second before prancing away from the scene.

The Mad Hatter forgot all about Heather's question. What one hare could do for a hatter...


End file.
